


Solace

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [10]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Gen, Master/Servant, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Submission, OOC Is Serious Business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: 1634, Blois. Sometimes, even the hardest of men need to cry.<br/>DISCLAIMER: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

_Being safe in the arms of someone you love_  
and who loves you no matter what  
 is the best therapy anyone survivor could ever have...  
~ Clanbear's becca

Grimaud woke up in his own bedroom, still disoriented for the fact that he had, indeed, a room for his own, for the first time in his life.

It was a small accessory room, it just had space for a bed, a wardrobe and a small table for the washbasin, but it was his. His master decided that he will be the head of the house staff and, to signal that position to the others, his valet had to have his own room. The first day sleep eluded him, the whole situation made him restless because there was too much comfort, but now it was a pleasure to be left alone, now and then **.**

Except when he was being awaken in the middle of the night by the knock on the wall that his room share with the chamber of his master.

He was not calling; he never called in the middle of the night. That noise was caused by his master’s restless sleep. His bed wanted a good tighten up, for the Count had been sleeping in that old piece of furniture a long time, and he tossed a lot in his dreams.

Since that fight when the young master came to Bragelonne they had not share the bed, but he has been aware that his master did not have a single night of good rest. The baby was not the cause, the nightmares were.

For a year, Grimaud had been sure that he had a really good time with that woman in Roche-l’Abeille, but now he knew better: she hurt him, deeply. And she added insult to injury by left him with child. There is not a better way to put it, she fucked him and now he had to raise the little bastard. He is too much a man to complain about it, particularly when the boy was his own blood and he is habituated to be responsible for the lives of others, among those, Grimaud’s. But the pain was there, even when he bottled it up with his iron will.

Memories were cowards and always assault a man when he was defenseless. When he slept, he had no power to contain them and they haunted him, just like the recollections of his wife. And even then, he managed not to scream his lungs out.

The noise repeated itself, harder this time.

Grimaud caressed the wall, like many other nights...

***

For the unaware spectator, _M. le comte de la Fère_ could seem awake. Quite, but that was not true, his heart raced on his chest, his eyes were open, and sweat poured from his brow, and he was groping the sheets, but he was not awake. He was trapped in that small room with a blonde woman, smelling the sulphur and feeling the heat, waiting for her to touch him again. He was locked in his own particular inferno. The lanky figure crept inside the bedchamber and stood up next to the bed, watching the count, he did realized the torment behind that still position, he could read it clearly in those open eyes. His hand drew the curtains, so he could gain a better access. He had to stop that torture, not because he could not sleep if the bed kept hitting the wall, but because pained him seeing his master in that state.

The servant fingers trembled; he knew he had no right to do it. He risked a sound thrashing for made him awake, but that did not stop his movement. His hand brushed that broad forehead, trying to keep the sweat away from those tortured blue eyes. The servant longed for a time where his sole presence bring solace to those eyes, because his master knew that the option was there, even if he did not took it, he had the choice of letting go that burning iron that was charring his insides. The Count full lips were parted and an anguished moan escaped from them, a small groan filled with pain and then the furious movement of a body that tried to fled that touch until the wall stopped him, he stayed there fists formed, shoulders shacking, ragged breath. Another soft moan, barely audible was uttered before a tiny light shine behind those eyes.

“Grimaud...” he whispered his name with trembling voice. He was not quite awakened, he seemed confused. “Is that you?”

“Yes...” the servant answered, his voice was a sure rumor; he knew exactly what to do to end the torment and he did it. “I am here...”

And, before that he lacked the courage, the servant slipped between the sheets and waited for his master's reaction. His master raised his hand. Grimaud flinched, he expected a hit; but a quick hand clutched his collar, another one seized his waist a soon a trembling body was draped around him with the force and urgency that only a drowning man could muster. The count tried to repress a distressed sob, with a moderated success, but he tried not to resist when his valet made him lay on the bed and started to caress his tangled mane, whispering senseless words into his ear.  

The damp broke. Harsh moans escaped the broad chest of the master of the house and soon a torrent of tears were poured on the humble shirt of the valet, racked by the incontrollable sobbing, he just buried his head in that shoulder and keep crying, seizing that warm body, heeding that voice that encouraged him to let all that go, until he had spent that feeling.

Grimaud kept caressing and cooing his master, he did not dare to disturb that display of raw grief. He just stayed there, cradling him while he cried so bitterly a whole year of pain and loneliness, emptying his heavy heart from that even heavier load. Soon he was so tired out that he just fell asleep, trembling against the man that cuddled him. Grimaud sighed and just kept caressing him until he was lulled to a quiet rest, just then, the servant allowed himself to sleep.

The count woke up several times during the night, some more of those false awakenings, Grimaud did not mind it, he just hugged him and caress his hair some more until his master rest his head against him and returned to Morpheus’ embrace to get a little more rest. There were no more tears, just some tremors, some disquiet that was rapidly dispelled by his valet’s presence.

Dawn was approaching, soon the Breton had to start his work and he tried to wise up and to escape from that tight embrace, but his master was not letting him go. Every move the servant made only tighten up the lock of those arms until he annoyed his master enough to speak to him.

“If you dare to go,” the count told him with a drowsed, gruff voice, “I’ll whip you within an inch of your unworthy live...”

“But, _M. le comte_ , breakfast...”

“Breakfast-be-damned!” His voice was almost unintelligible. “I want to sleep and you are a comfy pillow...”

Grimaud grunted his agreement and settle in the bed, but he was wide awake. Lifetime habits were hard to shake, but he had to admit to himself that even in this old bed, with the warm body of his master over his frame, that he could not find a more comfortable place in all Bragelonne.

Not even his new room.


End file.
